On Cue
by MissBates
Summary: Wilson visits his high school crush, watches a sentimental British comedy and has an epiphany. End of S8, alternative ending to 'Holding On'.


**A/N**: Set at the end of S8, an alternate ending to 'Holding on'. Lyrics and inspiration in general from _Love Actually (2003)_. A special thanks to clinic_duty on LJ for episode transcripts.

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><p><em>I feel it in my fingers,<br>__I feel it in my toes,  
><em>_Christmas is all around me.  
><em>_And so the feeling grows._

The lyrics pour out of the open door onto the stoop, along with the light that frames Melanie in a golden halo.

"Yes?" she says.

"Umm, do you remember me?" he asks. "James. James Wilson from high school. We were in the same English class. Mr Charlton's class, remember?"

She looks puzzled, then recognition dawns. "Omigod, James!" She lunges forward and he's enveloped in a warm hug. "James! It's _so_ good to see you!

And funnily, he believes her.

"Mo-om!" someone calls from inside the house. "Are you coming?"

"Pause the movie!" she orders over her shoulder. "I need a sec." To Wilson she says, "Come in! This is _such_ a surprise!"

When he hesitates, she steps back and tugs him inside with her.

"You're busy," he protests. "I don't want to disturb your ... ."

"You're not disturbing us," Melanie says, and her eyes glow so warmly that Wilson believes her. "It's our family evening. We always watch a movie together on Christmas Eve. If you have the time, then just join us."

The polite thing to do would be to say he only has five minutes so he'll pass, but he's dying and in no mood to cater to the needs of others. Besides, Melanie dumped him in order to go the prom with Kyle Calloway; she owes him. So he says, "Oh, all right, if you're sure your family won't mind."

"No, no!" she says walking ahead of him into the living room, from where sound, light and good smells proceed. The years have left their mark on Melanie. She was always a little plump, but now she's –- well-rounded, he'd say, with a double chin, streaks of gray in her hair and crow's feet at the corners of her eyes. But she still exudes that warmth and sense of impish humour that attracted him in high school all those years ago.

"What are you doing here?" she asks over her shoulder.

"Visiting my parents," he says. An exercise in futility, he has realized. His parents can't deal with death any more than they can deal with schizophrenia, so they ignore his cancer the way they ignored (and still ignore) Danny's illness. There is no elephant in their living room because they've decided the species doesn't exist. He has spent the past three evenings with them, talking about their neighbours, their worries, and Michael's kids. After he dies, they'll spend their evenings talking about their neighbours, their worries, and Michael's kids. Nothing will change for them.

"Well, that's nice, that you're dropping in on me. How are you?"

"Fine," he says, because not being a burden to others has become second nature to him. He wishes he could say, 'I feel like crap. I'm dying, and everything's breaking apart,' but that would ruin her nice family evening.

They enter the living room. It's decorated in warm colours, but not in a formal, styled manner. Rather, it's functional, the furniture an assorted mix, probably bought in bits and pieces as the family grew in size. The coffee table is of heavy wood, the surface beaten and scratched, the rugs are worn, the armchairs and couches somewhat threadbare. In a corner thrones a garishly decorated Christmas tree with presents piled up underneath it. Four kids ranging in age between eighteen or so and ten are sprawled across the couches and the rugs. They look up at him in mild curiosity, smile and say hi when they are introduced, and then return to their own agendas.

"Can we start now?" one asks.

"Goodness, manners!" Melanie says mildly. "Will you make room for James please?"

"Oh, are you watching the movie with us?"

Wilson can't remember the girl's name – he didn't catch any of their names – so he smiles and says, "Yes, if that's okay with you."

"Do you know the movie? It's _Love Actually_. We watch it every year on Christmas Eve." The cover of the DVD is thrust into his hands.

He examines it. The pictures on it look vaguely familiar. "I think so," he says helplessly to the faces turned towards him in expectation. He can't remember anything of the plot. Was there even a plot? Faint snippets of unconnected scenes flash across his mind. A British Prime Minister, some kid who'd lost his mother, and a ridiculously pretty Keira Knightley. "I don't remember much, though," he adds apologetically.

A tumult of amazed indignation coupled with confused plot summaries ensues: his ignorance is a gap of such vastness in his education that it easily overcomes the children's reticence with strangers.

"What kinda movies do you watch?" the second oldest child, probably about fourteen or fifteen, asks.

What would he watch if he were at home? House likes _film noir_ classics and Indiana Jones. "_Casablanca_ or _Lethal Weapon_," he says. "_Star Wars_." He can't envisage watching _Love, Actually_ with House. In fact, he isn't sure what he's doing here on a lumpy couch with a horde of teens watching a movie that doesn't check his boxes at all.

Melanie's husband comes in bearing a tray with mugs. "Hot chocolate," he says, putting it down on the coffee table. Wilson rises awkwardly, introduces himself and excuses his presence, but Harry is as indifferent to this addition to the family circle as the children are, if not more so. He counts the mugs on the tray, saying, "Another mug coming up in a moment. Cameron, get the chips."

"Dad, I don't like marshmallows. You know I don't like marshmallows!" one of the kids complains.

Harry frowns at the kid. "You don't like marshmallows? Why didn't you say so?"

"I say so every year, and every year you put marshmallows in my cocoa!"

"That would explain it: it's a tradition then," Harry says. He grabs the mug. "One cocoa with marshmallows and one without coming up."

"I can take the one with the marshmallows," Wilson says, flapping his hand at the offending object.

"Cameron's probably spat into it already," the youngest says. (Wilson can't tell whether it's a boy or a girl.)

"No, I haven't," Cameron says indignantly.

"We won't risk it," Melanie decrees. "Whether Dad makes one or two fresh mugs of cocoa doesn't make any difference."

"Can we watch the movie now?" someone else whines. "We've been waiting for _ages_!" (Maybe House is right about kids being overrated. Wilson hasn't a clue why he ever wanted any.)

Melanie rolls her eyes. "Not until Dad ... ."

"You can start without me," Harry says with true magnanimity. "I know the movie off by heart. _I feel it in my fingers, I feel it in my toes_," he sings off-key, heading for the kitchen.

Watching this movie with a family is a surreal experience, Wilson finds. As it proceeds, he recognizes scenes here and there, but not the way Melanie's family do. They sing along with Bill What's-his-name, one of the kids shakes her hips along with Hugh Grant to 'Jump For My Love', they discuss the pros and cons of falling in love at the tender age of eleven, they anticipate all the funny bits ("He's gonna fall into the pond now, three, two, one, splash!"), and when Alan Rickman has his first appearance the youngest kid asks, "Is that really Snape?"

Wilson remembers Alan Rickman from the previous time he watched the movie, and now he recalls when and where he watched it: it was with Julie in a movie theatre in Princeton, a few weeks or months before their marriage finally collapsed. That's why he hadn't liked it; the Alan Rickman/Emma Thompson subplot had been too close to the mark for comfort. His two previous marriages had ended like that, stupidly and unnecessarily, because he'd been attracted to women who'd been conveniently within his reach. He hadn't enjoyed watching the same story play out on the screen in all its inevitability. Now, he finds it a lot easier to bear. Rickman's character is stupid or naïve or whatever you choose to call it, but it's Emma Thompson's character he empathizes with this time around.

What touches him unexpectedly (though he should have seen it coming) is the subplot featuring the recently widowed Liam Neeson and his stepson. What will it be like for those Wilson leaves behind? Correction: it's a singular. What will it be like for the one he leaves behind? To whom will he turn? He has no Emma Thompson to confide in, no stepson for whom he'll have to keep his act together. There won't be a Claudia Schiffer look-alike for House to comfort him in his bereavement.

And then there's the scene where Billy Mack, the ageing rock star who has made an unexpected comeback, returns to his manager to tell him that he's the one he wants to spend Christmas with, the one whom he's destined to love, and it makes Wilson mad, plain mad. Will House ever open up and tell him that he loves him? No. Not even when he's dying will House do him that favour. He's not asking House to be gay for him or anything like that; no, all he wants is a sign of affection, to know that he matters, that House cares. But House is worse than those English guys with their 'stiff upper lip' and awkward back slaps. No way will he take the word 'love' in his mouth.

His chest is tight and he can feel a cough bout on the rise, so he gets up and goes to the kitchen for a glass of water. He drinks it slowly in between coughs, thinking that he shouldn't have come and that he shouldn't have stayed for the movie. Melanie enters the kitchen silently.

"You aren't well, are you?" she asks, coming over to his side and clasping his arm. "You want to talk about it?"

He shakes his head. Talking won't change anything.

"Do you have someone to talk to? A friend?" Melanie asks.

"Yeah, I've got a friend. Not much of a talker, but he'll do."

"That's good." Melanie withdraws her hand.

He tries for a lighter note. "Ever heard from Kyle again?" he asks.

"Kyle?" Melanie asks, mystified.

"Yeah, Kyle Calloway. The guy who took you to the prom. It broke my heart, you know." He smiles to take the sting out of his words.

"Oh, him. Oh my goodness, I'd forgotten all about him." Melanie's smile is reminiscent. "Never saw him again after high school. You were in love with him, weren't you?"

Wilson chokes on a mouthful of water. "Wh-what?"

"It only struck me years later – that you're gay, I mean," Melanie continues. She shakes her head. "I was stupid and blind. I couldn't understand why you never made a move on me, and when Kyle asked me to go to the prom with him, I thought maybe it would make you jealous enough to ask me. And it did make you jealous, I guess, but in the wrong way. I'm so sorry, James."

He opens his mouth to correct her, to tell her that she's misinterpreting the past, that it's all a big misunderstanding, and that he isn't gay, when it hits him. He's got the roles all mixed up, just like Melanie does. _House_ isn't Billy Mack, charismatic rock star and ex-junkie, and _he_ isn't House's fat, lonely manager: it's the other way round. He, Wilson, is the successful one, the popular one, the one with all the choices, and House has been waiting off-stage for him to return home. (Or maybe he's given up on him and is comforting himself with a bottle of scotch and lots and lots of Vicodin.)

"Uh, I've got to go," Wilson says to Melanie, putting down his glass. "I've ... just remembered something."

Melanie arches her eyebrows in enquiry.

"Had an epiphany," Wilson elucidates. "Understood something." He gives Melanie a quick hug. "Will you excuse me?"

It's past midnight when he reaches Princeton and rings the bell to House's apartment. House is still up; the lights are on. Opening the door, he treats Wilson to one of his silent stares before limping back to the couch. Pretty much like in the movie, though with less text. There's a bottle of scotch on the coffee table and a half-empty glass. The television set is off, but the piano is open; House's neighbours are going to be grateful for Wilson's arrival.

"Get yourself a glass," House says. "There's no food in the house; I wasn't expecting company."

Wilson stands behind the couch, moving from one foot to the other. In the movie it had been so simple. Billy Mack had declared his love awkwardly but volubly, the fat manager had nodded and allowed himself to be hugged, and all had been well. Wilson has a bad feeling that this won't be as simple.

"Aren't you supposed to be at your parents' place, making arrangements for your funeral?" House asks, reaching for the remote control.

"Yeah, I was there. I met Melanie," Wilson says.

"Melanie who?"

"My high school crush. The girl who ditched me in order to go to the prom with another guy." There's no reaction from House. "We watched _Love Actually_."

House snorts in derision. "So you've decided that she's the love of your life and that you want marry her, have lots of sex and half a dozen kids."

So House knows the movie. "She has a wonderful husband and four ... ." He pauses. He was about to say 'lovely kids', but they were rather dreadful, actually, so he just says, "... four children. Besides, she thinks I'm ... ." He hesitates again. He was about to say 'gay', but he doesn't want to open that can of worms, so instead he says, "... boring."

House nods. Then he gets up, limps to the cabinet and gets a glass for Wilson. He pours a shot and pushes the glass in Wilson's direction, nodding at the couch. Wilson sits down, staring at the glass. It strikes him that what he wants to say to House and what House wants to hear are two different things. He _could_ tell House that he's the love of his life and that he'd like nothing more than to spend the one remaining Christmas of his life in House's arms, but House needs something different.

So he says, "I'll do the full chemo course."

House freezes in the act of picking up his own glass. "Even if I don't say that I love you?" he asks raising one eyebrow.

The bastard! Billy Mack's manager was a walkover in comparison. But this is all Wilson's going to get, a screwed-up friendship with a difficult, exasperating, maddening, ... loyal, faithful, caring (in his own way) guy.

So he takes a deep breath and says, "Even if you don't say you love me."

"And then?"

"And then I spend the next two or three Christmases here on your couch, watching crappy movies and eating Chinese takeout," Wilson supplies, "puking my guts out in between chemo sessions and shedding hair on your rug."

House says nothing. Wilson says, "And if I go into remission, I'll spend the next decades on your couch, watching crappy movies and eating Chinese takeout."

House nods slightly. "Sounds like a plan," he says. He picks up the remote again, switches on the television and zaps through the channels until something in black-and-white catches his attention. "How about _It's a Wonderful Life_?"

"Sounds like a plan," Wilson says. He doesn't like the movie: it's too smooth. But life is full of crappy compromises, and this one's easy enough.

"Wilson?" House says.

"Yeah?"

There's a long pause. "I do, you know. ... Love you, I mean."

Wilson squints at him. House has his eyes fixed on a spot on the wall somewhere to the left of Wilson. This is where they're supposed to hug stiffly, each patting the other awkwardly on the back, and then pull apart, wiping a surreptitious tear out of their eyes. _Baby steps_, Wilson decides. He has a year or two to make House learn his lines and say them on cue.

"Let's not get sentimental," he says, leaning back and putting his feet on the coffee table.


End file.
